


fidgeting

by flcv



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Coping Mechanisms, F/F, Fidgeting, but if the tags tell you anything is that it won't be endgame, but it's for plot™, im sorry for making Lena bad later ;(, sombra is bby and is nice ok??, widowtracer now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28852428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flcv/pseuds/flcv
Summary: Throughout several reconditionings, Amélie loses herself to Widowmaker. However, the image of messy short hair and soft lips prevail, despite all obstacles.-widowtracer grows into mercymaker, tracer/widow will NOT be a thing in the end be warnednote: this isn't reviewed by anyone else, and english isn't my first language, and despite being fluent in it, there might be things that are wrong. feel free to point out any mistakes.
Relationships: Lena "Tracer" Oxton/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix, Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Kudos: 8





	fidgeting

**Author's Note:**

> listen I have no clue if i'll abandon this fic or if it'll grow to be huge, but there you go <3
> 
> warning: itching/cleaning/rubbing skin and nails/cuticles as a coping mechanism. mention of a small bruise. overall, fidgeting.

Amélie always fidgeted after reconditionings, Sombra had come to notice. 

Often enough, she'd check in on her via hacked video feed, if a second or two delayed, but her routine was virtually the same each and every single time. Stay in bed for as long as she was allowed, then sit up as she took her mandatory daily supplements, and then fidget, pensive purple hands doing the thinking for her own overwhelmed brain.

Quickly enough, she'd find a routine. She'd get up seconds before food even arrived to the room. If she could hear it coming from further away than usual because of something no doubt fucked up Moira had possibly done to her, or if it was just her internal clock, the young hacker didn't know. She suspected the former, but with how technologically and biologically advanced they'd made the spider, she wouldn't be surprised if it was the latter. 

Regardless. She'd eat, methodically and calculated, counterclockwise on the plate, over the exact thirty minutes she was allowed to keep the sad tray in the sad excuse of her sad room. Then, she'd stand up, once again, just before she actually had to, slipping the tray through the slightest gap under the door. 

After, she'd sit on the bed and fidget some more, this time consciously, meticulously cleaning her nails and removing cuticles, sparing a few calculated and detached glances at her hypoxic skin. 

Days later, they'd put her into training, cutting her sustenance to the bare minimum, which with her medical background meant the calories equivalent to a single day on a starvation diet, throughout the week, all in a glicose and supplements cocktail through IV.

A week or so later, after muscle memory caught up from the last reconditioning, she'd go back to missions (which they didn't plan for inicialy, she wasn't supposed to remember anything at all, but it made recovery from the mental wipe easier - which would be their downfall, and Sombra knew. The goddamn spider was remembering more recently, and subconsciously getting better at covering it all up).

Then, she'd inevitably meet Tracer. And she was always kind to her, to the most lethal enemy she could encounter, and the Widow's Kiss hesitated. And if she didn't sometimes, the hyper brit would just push herself back in time, and it'd be back to just the way it used to. 

Ironically enough, it didn't take long for Tracer to become Lena, and for Widow to become Amélie either. The young agent did take her back to what they were, each and every time. 

At first, Sombra wondered if it was just because of the tight latex bodysuit and the French accent that somehow still slipped through despite everything else disappearing (she wouldn't blame her, honestly), but it soon proved to run deeper than that.

Damn it, she even got her snacks, and a blanket once, as they laid on the rooftop, the sniper rifle discarded next to them, also staring up at the sky. 

"Am I lost, Lena?" She would ask her lover by then, and the other woman would answer in earnest, eyes sad. 

"I'll save you." And Amélie would look at her, knowingly, but she'd smile all the same, whispering a thank you between tears and kisses. 

It'd become a goodbye for them. 

As soon as their sniper was back, she wouldn't be able to hold it together, and they'd send her right to get reconditioned. Sometimes, she'd last until the next mission, but no further than that. 

Well, that is until a certain day. 

Sombra was starting to tire of their soap opera: she wouldn't admit it, but watching the shorter girl's face get sadder and sadder through Widowmaker's visor was nothing short of heartwrenching. The cameras to her cell-so-called-room agreed vehemently. Enough was enough. 

This time around, once Amélie began to fidget and remember brown spiky hair, murmuring 'L's under her breath (either for 'Lena' or for 'love' she didn't know, maybe both), she approached her, plainly telling her. 

"0093. Do not come back next mission. Stay with Lena." 

The spider complied with a single nod, the mention of her lover's name igniting a fire within her once again, but the need to obey to the four digit code still prevailed. A small thanks, and she was out the door for her mission. 

This one was different, which is why Sombra chose that day. It didn't involve specifically eliminating any target, so she wasn't under any orders to do so, which prevented some of her most primal instincts from being activated, or a killswitch if she failed the mission (she had no confirmation on that other than some redacted files from ages ago, but she wouldn't put it past them to having actually implanted something of the sort). 

Usually Talon wouldn't bother if it was just memories, they'd gotten doctors to brainwash her again and again for a reason, she was too valuable of an asset, but if she was to side with the enemy and share intel and maybe bed one of their top agents? Maybe then they would. Moira was greedy, the hacker wouldn't put it past the deranged doctor to not let anyone else have her if she couldn't. 

And so, sooner than later, Amélie was out in the field, and no one suspected a thing. Or so the hacker thought, as a smoky figure watched from afar. He wouldn't try anything though, if anything… He'd buy himself a way out too from Sombra if it came to that. 

The mission itself was easy. Steal some info, send it to Talon, and since she'd asked so nicely, Amélie would then visit Lena at their chosen rooftop this time around. 

Their embraces had become a quick way for Lena to know what she was dealing with. Only gunpowder was fine enough, mixed with remains of toxin meant it was a closer call, and the coppery smell of blood was never nice. It often wasn't her own, but Amélie avoided making a mess if she could, so it meant she had no option but to forgo her systematic clean shots that had been drilled into all levels of her consciousness. 

That day, neither of the above. Only a hint of latex from her bodysuit, and plain smelling shampoo from freshly washed hair. 

"Love…?" Asked Lena, confused, pulling back ever so slightly to face her properly, only to be pulled flush to the snipers front once again. 

"No one was harmed. My orders are to stay with you." Which only confused her more, but she knew she was telling the truth. 

They'd made her blunt and strong enough that lying was no use, and they actively suppressed it. She could only lie by omission safely, and she had several ways to off herself if she was ever about to spill any information she shouldn't. Plus, going against orders always took a huge toll on her, and right now she looked at ease. 

"For how long? Why? Don't get me wrong, love, but... this is awfully weird." 

"It didn't specify, so until the order gets called off. I find it as weird as you do, especially since I didn't remember you fully until today." Amélie gave a small, apologetic smile, with the shorter woman was quick to cover with her own wider, genuine one. 

"Who gave you the order?" She inquired.

"I cannot say." And she frowned as she answered. A serious migraine would be the punishment for breaking rules, she knew by now. 

"Right," Lena was at a loss for what to do. She couldn't just take her back to Overwatch headquarters unannounced, and she didn't know when or if this order was going to be called off, and while she was her girlfriend, she knew that even then, if Amélie was ordered to put a bullet in her chest, or in any other part of her body, really, she most likely would. "Yeah, not going to lie to you, luv. Scared shitless of taking you anywhere, or triggering something, or-"

And it was the spider's turn to quiet her worries with her lips flush to hers. 

"I have faith in us, souris." Another soft kiss, almost a peck, this time delivered to the corner of pouty lips. "If I feel like I'm on the brink of hurting you, I'll run. I'm good at fleeing too." And a nudge to the grappling hook by her waist, and Tracer's frown had been turned into a somewhat hopeful smile. She was an optimist at heart, after all.

And so the two women left for a rather inconspicuous looking apartment just over a pub ("It's not like I own it, but the owner of the pub says all the rounds I buy downstairs make up rent.", as the shorter of the two explained). 

Widowmaker had yet to taste alcohol, but Amélie… she was no stranger to it, back in the day. Not that she knew all the details, but Lena had told her once, maybe a few reconditionings ago and for some reason she remembered still, that she used to indulge in finely aged wine and expensive liquor. More memories were coming back to her, it seemed. 

They got accustomed to a small couch not quite meant for two, a few stains of god knows what adorning it, but she wasn't picky. It was better than her cell by a long shot, and she'd rather have a lumpy couch over the cool leather of the chairs in Moira's office. Aside from that, it wasn't like she had any other points of comparison anymore. 

Eventually Tracer slept, limbs sprawled over her partner, one hand clutching for dear life. It wasn't a hold Amélie couldn't get out of though. With the grace of a ballerina and the precision of a sniper, she extricated herself from her embrace, shedding her weapons (save for the hidden ones that she knew wouldn't hurt either of them in their sleep), and letting her hair drop past her shoulders like an ink river. If there was something they Moira didn't alter, was her beauty. She'd always had glorious hair, a nice body, and a defined face that left others giving her a double take.

Everything was deathly silent save for the laughter and background noise from the pub downstairs, and the faint sound of nails scraping against nails and pulling skin. And rubbing, and scratching, maybe a little hard as a small blemish bloomed in the place where her hand met her wrist. Even small sparse hairs on her arms that escaped the chemicals pumped into her were removed, painstakingly so, one by one, and her brain shut down progressively as her hands finally slowed the practiced anxious movements.


End file.
